Downward they dare not look, for there

Is death and horror, and despair;

Nor can her patient looks to Heaven repair,

For the huge Idol over her, in air,

Spreads his seven hideous heads, and wide

Extends their snaky necks on every side;

And all around, behind, before,

The bridal Car, is the raging rout,

With frantic shout, and deafening roar,

Tossing the torches’ flames about.

And the double double peals of the drum are there,

And the startling burst of the trumpet’s blare;

And the gong, that seems, with its thunders dread,

To stun the living, and waken the dead.

The ear-strings throb as if they were broke,

And the eye-lids drop at the weight of its stroke.

Fain would the Maid have kept them fast,

But open they start at the crack of the blast.